


Mic & Tie

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, Godklok, M/M, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Doomstar Requiem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:10:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: A collection of short stories that center around Nathan and Charles being perfect.





	1. Look, A Distraction!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you think they noticed anything?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was, “kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing.” I took that and ran with it. Clearly I watch too much Friends, but inappropriate distractions are sometimes the best defense. 
> 
> There's a hint of Skwisgaar/Toki if you squint, and also, Europeans, I apologize for what Murderface says about you.

“Does anyone else have any further business that they would like to, ah, discuss?” Charles asked, looking warily around the table. 

“I think we schould get a head schtart on dishcusching creditsch for the nexsht album,” Murderface said quickly, provoking a chorus of groans from around the room. 

“Nooo,” Pickles groaned, slumping down onto the conference table amidst his collection of empty bottles. “Gahd, Murderface, we’ve been here for hours already! Let’im end the fuckin’ meeting!” 

“Ja, fucks dis,” Skwisgaar grumbled. 

“I wants to goes to my rooms and makes a new model airplanes,” Toki whined. He glanced furtively at Skwisgaar, then added, “Alones! For at leasts forty-five minutes… No, a whole hours!” 

Skwisgaar paused briefly in his playing to quirk an eyebrow at his fellow guitarist, but otherwise didn’t comment. 

“Yeah, I pass,” Nathan announced flatly. “Vetoed. Too bad Murderface, guess you don’t have the majority vote, better go stab some furniture about it  _again_.” 

“You— I’m trying to be scheriousch here and you’re all— You guysch all schuck donkey ballsch!” 

Charles ignored that, choosing to pick up the papers on the table before him and shuffle them in a businesslike way instead. “Well, in that case, I hereby declare this band meeting adjourned.” 

At the far end of the conference table, Pickles lept out of his chair with a cheer. “Yeeeeah!  _Gahd_  I could use a drink, dood who’s with me?” 

Nathan stood too. “I don’t know about the rest of you dildos, but I’m in.” He walked around to Charles’ chair, put a hand on his shoulder, and swooped in to give the manager a kiss on the lips with a quick, “Bye.” 

And then he froze like a deer caught in the headlights as he realized that he’d just done that in front of the rest of the band. 

“Uhhhhhh…” 

“… Nathans, whats just happen?” Skwisgaar asked suspiciously. 

Thinking quickly and, as usual, arriving at a solution that didn’t actually make sense, Nathan launched himself around the table at the nearest person, who happened to be Toki. 

He grabbed the rhythm guitarist by the front of his tshirt into a quick kiss, then bellowed “BYE!” into his face. 

From there he ran to Skwisgaar and did the same, swallowing the Swede’s hurried protest and reducing it to a sound like “Hruuugh!” 

“BYE!” 

He got to Pickles, who was halfway to the door and looked as though he couldn’t decide which direction to run. It was like watching a snake dive for a mouse it had been hunting and just cornered, mouth-first. 

“BYE!” 

Nathan released the drummer and rounded to look at Murderface. Eyes wide and still glued to his seat by shock, the bassist shrieked, “No homo, Nathan, jeezchy!” 

“FINE. I’m going to go. Drink. In my room. ALONE.” 

And with that, the frontman bolted from the room, leaving horrified silence in his wake. 

After a moment, Pickles moved back to his abandoned chair on shaky legs and dropped into it with a whimper. 

“Whats de  _fucks_  was dat?” Skwisgaar burst out, looking pale and a little sick. 

“Maybes it ams because we just finished de European tours?” Toki suggested weakly. 

“That isch  _not_  what Europeansch do, Toki! It’sch too gay, even for thosche fruity queersch!” 

“It felt French,” Pickles muttered hollowly. 

At the head of the table, Charles carefully reshuffled his papers and stood. “Yes, well. Let’s just all try to, ah, put it behind us, shall we?” 

“Schit no, I’m not letting that guy anywhere  _near_  behind me!” 

“Try to forget about it, then,” Charles advised. “I’m sure it was just a one time thing. Good day.” 

As he walked back to his office, his dethphone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he read Nathan’s text and gave a very put-upon sigh before typing a reply. 

 _No, I don’t think they realized anything is going on, but I wouldn’t advise doing that again._  He hit send, considered for a moment, and then added,  _See you tonight <3.   
_


	2. A Huge Damn Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a big gay evening of speed dating courtesy of his dumb bosses having Ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@transoffdensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transoffdensen/pseuds/transoffdensen), I blame you for this. And also the fact that, again, I clearly [ watch too much Friends](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DrPtc2ajqYV4&t=MzBkYTEzYWVkY2FkMGVmMjRkMTE3NzQ5Zjc0ZTNiMjExNDNiZjA0NyxRTXF2T0s3OQ%3D%3D&b=t%3Asy0G9CAs9A9dgF34zn_9Wg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fatmilliways.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173556559242%2Ftransoffdensen-i-blame-you-for-this-and-also&m=1).

In the end, he couldn’t just say that it wasn’t his birthday. Which it wasn’t. And it would have been unwise to just decline the gift, considering what the boys were capable of when rejected. 

Besides, Nathan was glaring at him really hard as Toki presented him the letter, so it was probably important in some obscure, inscrutable way. 

“Gay speed dating,” Charles read out loud. He chose to ignore the  _for what am’s dildos_  scrawled next to it in Skwisgaar’s handwriting. “You… signed me up for speed dating.” 

“Yep,” Pickles confirmed cheerfully, throwing an arm around his shoulders and plopping a paper party hat down on his head. “We’ve never seen ya with a lady so we figured that, ya know, whatever floats yer boat. Happy birthday, chief!” 

“Yeah,” Toki echoed cheerfully, “and then we saws an ads in the papers and just knew it was  _destinies_.” 

Still hanging back in the door to the office, Murderface coughed. “I juscht want to add that thisch wasch in no way my idea and I will not be held reschponschible for how much of a gay dildolicker you are, Offdenschen.”   
“Shut the fuck up Murderface,” Nathan growled. “You were the one who found the fucking ad.” 

And then they descended into petty bickering. Charles sighed. 

It was going to be a rough night. 

* * *

**_~ later ~_ **

* * *

The third guy that sat down at the table did not look promising. No one at this mail-order event did, but the least he could have done, Charles thought primly, was wash his hair. Being slightly greasy did not improve the chin-length dirty blonde look. 

But he had already resigned himself to a terrible evening, so whatever.   
“Hey, I’m Jim, Jim Nelson,” the guy said with a grin, offering the hand that wasn’t holding a martini garnished with four olives on a toothpick. 

Charles eyed it for a second before shaking, keeping his expression as blank and disinterested as the occasion deserved. “John Doe. Nice to meet you.” 

“Isn’t it funny that we would run into each other like this?” Jim asked. “It’s as if someone really wants us to be together.” He flashed another cheesy grin and leaned his elbows on the table, slouching. “Me.” 

Oh god. 

“Witty banter,” Charles said dryly. “Well done.” He took a long sip from his glass of brandy. 

“So, tell me a little about yourself, John.” 

Charles sighed. “Okay. Well, I’m an accountant. I used to work at—” 

“Do you like to party?” Jim interrupted. 

Silently but with all his might, Charles willed the bell to ring early just to get this guy the hell away from him. “I, ah. Sure.” Sometimes, with Dethklok, it helped to just agree to the stupid things and get it over with. Maybe it would work with this idiot. "I like parties." 

Jim was already nodding eagerly and leading forward. “You’re wild, aren’t you?” 

“I suppose,” Charles replied mechanically, absently straightening his tie. 

“It ain’t no thing,” Jim said, apparently trying to play it cool while having no actual idea what cool was. "I’m wild too.” He plucked the toothpick out of his drink, slouching even further as he did so, and ate one of the olives before dropping it back in. 

Charles managed to avoid actually grimacing. So far, Jim’s only good quality was not chewing with his mouth open. “… So, ah, anyway.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jim interrupted again, “I’m staring. It’s just that… you have the most beautiful eyes.” 

“Ah… Thank you.” 

“And your  _ass_ , damn that was a fine view while we were switching tables!” 

“Alright. Look,” Charles snapped, and his outburst actually prompted Jim to take his elbows off the table and sit up at least somewhat straight. Then Charles sighed. Obviously it was important to the guys that he sit through all this bullshit so they could feel like they’d done him a favor and could go back to comfortably ignoring him. It was in everyone’s best interest, especially his own, that he endured. “Look, you’re coming on a little strong. I’m, ah, going to give you the benefit of the doubt because… frankly, I don’t feel like making a scene. Why don’t we just start over and you can, ah, tell me about yourself.” 

“Alright…" 

“Okay." 

“I write erotic novels.” Jim looked strangely smug about that statement. Then he added, “For children.” 

Charles closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them slightly more prepared to face down the horror that was unfolding. “Sorry, what?” 

“They’re  _wildly_  unpopular,” Jim continued, as though this was some sort of surprise. 

“Oh my god,” Charles muttered, again turning to solace in his brandy. It was going to run out soon, that was the only reason he wasn’t actually gulping it down. 

“Oh, also! You might be interested to know that I have a PhD.” 

Charles looked up over the rim of his glass warily. “You do?” 

“Yeah! A pretty huge d—" 

Before he could complete that sentence and the accompanying suggestive gesturing, Charles had already thrown back the last of his brandy, tossed his napkin on the table, and stood to leave. 

* * *

**_~ later… again ~_ **

* * *

When Charles entered the kitchen to make himself a quick snack before heading to his office, he turned on the lights and then stopped short. Nathan was sitting at the saw blade table in the center of the massive room, turned in his seat to face the door. 

“Nathan, ah… I didn’t see you there.” 

“How did the speed dating go?” The question flew out like a stone from a catapult, so quickly that it seemed as though the glowering frontman had been holding it in for a while. 

Charles weighed the relative merits of lying versus being honest, and the likelihood of nothing worse being foisted upon him after either. In the time it took to consider that, he walked over and took a seat next to the other man. There was a bowl of chips on the table and, since he hadn’t stayed at the event long enough to partake in the complimentary dinner, he took a handful. 

“It was like that time,” he said finally, “when all your mothers came to visit, drank too much, hired some male strippers to come dance for them in the living room, and mistook me for one of them. Only with candlelight and linen tablecloths in the way.” 

This seemed to be the right thing to say, somehow, because the glare lessened a little bit. “Uh… yeah. And more dick,” Nathan observed. 

Maybe it was because he’d had two glasses of brandy at the event, and another during the ride home to help wash away the bad taste the whole experience had left in his mouth, but Charles snorted out a laugh right in the middle of swallowing a chip. He coughed, suffered through Nathan pounding helpfully on his back… and then told him about the PhD joke. 

“Huh,” Nathan said thoughtfully. “Hey, that’s pretty g—“ He caught Charles’ expression and quickly changed track. “—bad, it’s a bad joke.” 

“It was a very bad joke,” Charles agreed, and ate another chip, this time without incident. 

For a moment, a comfortable silence fell between them. It was, Charles reflected, much easier to be around Nathan on his own than with the rest of the band hanging around. On his own, Nathan was unlikely to poke too much fun at him or come up with ludicrous ideas. He was quiet, thoughtful… Smart, in his own way, and if given enough time to think through whatever was on his mind. 

“So,” Nathan began eventually, “I was reading this magazine earlier… There was one of those quizzes. You know, like… what kind of mental illness do you have or whatever? So I took it.” He picked up a chip and popped it in his mouth with a crunch. “You know what it said?” 

“What?” 

“Told me I have ADHD.” 

Charles turned in his seat to look at him. “I don’t think so.” 

Nathan shook his head. “Nah, I think it might be right.” He ate another chip, chewed, swallowed. “Yeah, I think I do. I think I have ADHD. You know why?” 

“Why?” 

A huge, shit-eating grin broke out across the big man’s face, instantly prompting a part of Charles to want to smile back. Another part of him, in the instant before Nathan replied, examined that first impulse and thought,  _When did that start?_  

A third part, though, saw what was coming, and it made sense. The seed of an idea behind the whole gay speed dating thing, all the glaring, the lying in wait for him to get home — and he didn’t mind. It actually made him feel a little warm on the inside, knowing that somewhere in Nathan was a glimmer of interest and damn the consequences. 

“Because,” Nathan said smugly, leaning back in his chair and looking quite pleased to see that he had his manager’s full and complete attention. "I have  _a damn huge dick_." 


	3. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Doomstar Requiem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was, "things you said after it was over."

Becoming the High Holy Priest of the Church of the Black Klok was, as it turned out, not a step down from Charles’ previous job in terms of paperwork. Upon assuming the position he was immediately shown to a huge private library where all the original, untranslated texts and really, really important prophesies were kept. 

Ishnifus had been grooming him for this much longer than he’d realized. Sending him snippets of things written in ancient languages and alphabets to translate on his own — to come to in your own time — had been mere practice. The real test of those skills came now, when there was nothing to guide him but the volumes of written interpretations and commentary of the High Holy Priests that had come before. 

He was engrossed in those volumes, and occasional breaks to study the original prophetic texts, when one of the massive stone doors to his new chambers slowly opened. 

“Hey.” 

Blinking, Charles looked up from his work. He caught himself reflexively reaching up to adjust glasses that he no longer wore and placed both hands on the desk. Not his desk — he had left that at Mordhaus, along with the rest of life and home and family as he’d come to know it over the last decade. 

Only the High Holy Priest was allowed in here, but very few people besides himself had much practice saying no to Nathan Explosion. 

“Hello, Nathan.” 

The big man still stood in the doorway, staring inscrutably at Charles with a slight frown. In the silence that preceded him deciding on what he wanted to say, Charles noted that he looked good. A little tired, perhaps, but as though he had been making some effort to keep in shape since the rescue training. 

“There are, uh… some things. That I didn’t say before. When you left.” Nathan’s frown deepened and he looked down at his boots. “Because, you know, there was a lot going on and it’s not like you gave us much warning or anything.” He glanced up, green eyes flashing. “That was kind of a dick move, by the way.” 

Charles inclined his head in acknowledgement and waited through the uncertain tension simmering between them for whatever was coming next. 

It seemed to suddenly occur to Nathan that the door was still open. He stepped in and dragged it shut behind himself until it thudded into place, then approached the desk cautiously, eyeing it as though the yellowed papers and parchment might bite if he got too close. “So… is this all the stuff that talks about what we’re supposed to do next?” 

A faint smile tugged at Charles’ mouth, powered mostly by nerves. All of Dethklok was easily distracted. “Well, ah, yes. Probably. Most of the prophets don’t seem to have a very good grasp of when things will happen, only what… Or if they did they, ah, don’t seem to have ever written it down.” 

“Oh.” Nathan stopped in front of the desk, about where the visitors chairs had been in his office, and stood there awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Well we’re, uh, all here. That bearded guy said we were stronger together or whatever, so… yeah.” 

They stared at each other for another moment until Charles realized that he was expected to say something now. 

“That’s, ah, that’s good. Good thinking.” He looked down at the notes he’d been making, then back up at the other man. “Is… that why you’re here? Did you all want to ask me about something?” 

“NO,” Nathan snapped, his hands suddenly squeezed into fists and coming down hard on the cluttered desk with a muffled thud. “Uh, no. It was just my idea. Because, um. Now that it’s all over, I wanted to say…" 

Charles didn’t know what he was expecting, but it was  _not_  a hand latching onto the medallion chain around his neck and dragging him forward across the desk into a rough kiss. He felt himself leaning into it, relaxing like a sigh after holding his breath for a long time. For years. 

“You’re an asshole for leaving us again,” Nathan growled against his lips, barely letting enough space between them to speak. “We’re all in this together.  _You of all people should know that_.” 


	4. Food for a Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is tea a food? The world may never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was, "When one stops the kiss to whisper 'I’m sorry, are you sure you-' and they answer by kissing them more." As per usual, I don’t really think I did what I think the prompt wanted me to do.
> 
> Set between Dethrecord and Dethrelease.

Charles sneezed, and grabbed absently for a tissue. Lately he had been feeling under the weather, but his schedule didn’t allow for any slacking off and he was absolutely not allowing something as inconsequential as a cold affect his work. The release of the new album was coming up and he had to get everything in order for the party — food and drink, work schedules for the waitstaff Klokateers, advance security drills, and counterintelligence on potential Revengancer attack plans, just to name a few. It was all too important to simply trust to an assistant.

Suddenly his door banged open and Nathan Explosion stomped in. It was a testimate to how congested Charles was that he hadn’t noticed the man’s thunderous approach.

“You’re sick,” Nathan announced, “and its fucking gross. So I brought you some food that’s good for colds.”

Charles blinked, and tried not to think about how the gesture was actually kind of sweet because he was too busy Not Admitting Weakness. “I’m, ah, not sick, Nathan.”

It did not help his case that this came out sounding more like,  _I’b, ah, dot sicg, Dathad._

“Bullshit.” Nathan slammed the tray he was carrying down on the desk, smack on top of what Charles had been working on, with a rattle of black, red, and copper tea set. “Here, drink this. ALL of it!” Then he moved around the desk to stand next to his manager while he prepared a cup, liberally dosed with honey.

Charles sighed and reached resignedly for another tissue to blow his nose again, if only to make enunciating his Ms and Ns easier. “Ah… this is tea. Not food.”

“No! It’s food, and I can prove it.” Nathan, still fiddling with things on the tea tray, scowled, his mind working harder than it usually did to come up with a rationalization. “You know how when you put something in the microwave, it goes around and around and then  _beeeeeeep_  and the little screen says ‘food is ready’?”

Charles didn’t think he approved of where this was going, but nodded.

“So, uh, say you forget there’s tea and leave it sitting around, and it gets cold. When you put it in the microwave, and it goes ding ‘cause it’s done, the microwave says it’s food.” Looking proud of himself for this complicated reasoning, Nathan handed Charles the steaming cup. “So there, tea is food.”

“You put your tea in the microwave?” Charles asked, with a hint of distaste. Then he sighed and blew on his tea. “Never mind. If you want to insist that tea is a food then I can’t stop you.” He peered up at Nathan, not wondering why he was still hovering so much as just appreciating his presence. The big man radiated warmth, and Charles kept getting chills. “As long as you don’t start putting alcohol in the microwave.“

Nathan shrugged. “Skwisgaar does that, sometimes. But I’m not sure he can read.”

Charles sighed.  _My life_ , he thought.

As he took his first sip — cautiously, because it was still hot — he closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant steam. There was even a thin slice of lemon, soothing his sore throat and bumping gently against his lip as he drank. Fingers brushed against the back of his neck, lightly as though shy at first and then settling into a gentle massage. Charles swallowed, leaned appreciatively into the touch, and took another sip.

Thats was the thing about Nathan… He was mostly a brute force kind of guy, but when it came to Charles’ defenses he had a knack for slipping past them with ease.

His eyes flew open when he felt lips pressed to his own, and hair falling heavily around his face like a curtain as Nathan leaned down to him. “I’m sorry, are you sure you—”

Nathan interrupted him by stealing another kiss, then backing off just enough to give him a wolffish grin. “Yeah, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because,” Charles began, then stopped.  _Oh hell_. He really had let his guard down, hadn’t he. “Because I’m sick,” he admitted with a sigh, telling himself it was purely for the other man’s sake. As Dethklok’s manager, lawyer, and CFO, he couldn’t just give the lead singer a cold.

Before he knew what was happening, Nathan had scooped him up in both arms and was walking briskly towards Charles’ rooms with a cheeky, “Guess that means you gotta spend the day in bed, then!”

Charles was about to reply, but sneezed instead and sagged against the broad, warm chest. He was still used to Nathan insisting on looking after him, now that they were together. But… maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it was for the best that he take a break now, and return to work later feeling rested and more able to focus.

What was the worst that could happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Sometimes I write sweet things, then add a last line like that one just to ruin it.


	5. Totally Lame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was, "Toki trying to convince Nathan to do something lame." I sort of had an idea when I started, but it took a weird hop a little while in and ended unexpectedly. 
> 
> I’m not sure if I want to continue this or rework it to fit into the chaptered fic I’m still toiling away at.

It started off totally wholesome and innocent. 

Okay, no it didn’t. It started out with Toki walking in on Nathan fucking the manager over his desk, and the little shit ran screaming from the room like he’d just seen his parents doing it and needed to wash the dirty scene from his eyeballs with boiling acid. 

Then the texts started. As a rule, Nathan didn’t bother to read any texts from the Scandinavian guitarists because they were always a horrible mishmash of misspelled words, typos, autocorrects, and non-English words — in other words, completely incomprehensible. Toki, being generally more talkative, was the worst about this. Nathan solved the problem of the Norwegian relentlessly blowing up his phone  first by ignoring it, then eventually by leaving it in his jeans pocket to get taken out with the wash. He was issued a new one, with a new number, the next day. 

Since avoidance seemed to be working pretty well, Nathan continued the trend until it snowballed into the entire band just sort of forgetting to include Toki in things. That worked pretty well for a while too, until the whole Special Persons Invites Club mess. By then Toki seemed to have given up on trying to talk to him about what he’d seen, but Nathan was still vaguely on alert for the idiot to blurt it out right there in front of Pickles and Skwisgaar during a club meeting. Why else would he exclude Murderface, the band member most likely to shit his pants at the news and have a screeching gay crisis that could go on for weeks? 

Well, aside from the fact that it was Murderface, that guy was pretty rank. But yeah, so totally incapable of coming out of the closet himself that he’d just ruin it for as many other people as possible. 

When nothing happened, Nathan just sort of figured Toki had forgotten about it. And then he’d started having those weird dreams about whales, and that thing with the liquid master had happened, and Pickles was so mad at him and pissing him off so much it was starting to border on cold war feud territory… and he kinda forgot too. 

Fast forward about a year and Nathan was still reeling from all the shit that had gone down. They all were, really. Everything from Roy’s death to Charles’ sudden resignation to Toki and Abigail’s rescue, it was too much to take in and make sense of. Had they become better people or something? Were they expected to save the world now, all by their dumbass selves? 

It was Nathan’s turn to sit in the box-like hospital room with Toki and keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t wake up from his frequent drugged naps and go totally postal on the doctors and nurses or whatever, so he was crammed into the unfairly narrow visitor’s chair and trying to think. Not just about all the weird shit that had gone down, either… Ever since that, hrm hrm  _HRMMM_ , thing with Abigail on the Dethsub, Charles hadn’t been anything more than politely civil towards him. It had fucked up the whole boss-and-employee-with-benefits thing all to hell, and Nathan couldn’t help wondering guiltily if that was part of why the guy had left. They’d heard through the grapevine that Charles had taken over for that old priest who’d died, but none of Nathan’s calls or texts to the man seemed to go through anymore. 

“Nathans?” croaked a raspy voice. The frontman looked up to meet Toki’s bleary gaze. “Are you here’s to helps me goes to the b-a-s-t-h-r-o-h-m-n-s-e?” 

“Uhhhh…” It took his fumbling brain a moment to figure that one out, but when he got it, he grimaced. “No. They gave you a catheter after you pissed on Skwisgaar and he fell and broke his ass for a couple days. Just… go ahead and pee where you are.”

“Oh.” Toki giggled, either about the Skwisgaar thing or at the privilege of peeing without wetting the bed. “Okays.”

There was a deeply uncomfortable silence, during which Nathan pretended he didn’t know exactly what his band mate was doing over there. 

“Nathans?” Toki asked again. 

Fully expecting to be asked for ice water and a crazy straw, Nathan sighed and levered himself out of the uncomfortable chair. They all took Toki duty every few days, partly to protect the hospital staff but partly to reassure themselves that the kid — even though Nathan was technically younger, it was hard not to think of Toki as the baby of their fucked up little family — really was alive and well. Or at least, healing. Not dead, anyway, and definitely no longer a missing-in-action Schrödinger’s guitarist. After all that time they’d spent dicking around when they could’ve just fucking manned up and helped with the search, getting him water or his deddybear seemed fair enough penance. It beat having to say sorry, anyway. 

“Yeah, what?”

“You remembers… that time what’s I saw you and Charleses doings it up the butts?” 

Nathan froze, all the blood slamming out of his face in shock. “Uhhhhhhhhhh…” 

“Is he mads at you ‘cause of Abigails?” Toki continued weakly but earnestly. “I talks to her yesterdays and she saids maybe that ams what happens why he goes to that church place.” 

The creepy thing about that was, Abigail had opted to be moved to another hospital so she could be closer to her family. Several weeks ago. 

“So maybes whats you should does is… apoljisecks to hims in person, likes you did with Pickle.” 

“Toki, that’s…” Nathan scowled, trying to find the right words to convey how he felt about that suggestion. “Apologizing is really fucking lame and not metal. And you know how I feel about that.” 

Toki just looked at him with a grimace that said,  _Reallies? Okays, we does it this ways then._  He groped around for the bed controls and hit the button that elevated his pillows slightly, so he was practically sitting up. 

“Nathans,” he slurred, “I talks to all the guys, and they says you should does it. Espescially Pickle, he said he was ams very moved whens you did it to hims. And Skwisgaar says you ams really bumming everyones out because you needs to get laid. Even Morderface agrees you beens in a real weirds mood since the submarines… I think that says a lots.” 

“What… does that say?” Nathan asked with menacing slowness, his scowl deepening stubbornly, but on the inside he was  _totally freaking out_. Toki had talked to the guys about this?  _All_  of them? 

And those  _assholes_  actually backed him up on this apologizing thing? 

Toki gave him a wavery smile. “That you misses and cares about hims.” 

“I don’t— God, you’re making it sound gayer than it actually is.”   
  


“Whats am gayer than sex in the butts with two guys?” Toki asked, puzzled.   
  


There wasn’t really any good answer for that, so Nathan just stomped over to the window and glared out through it at nothing, his arms crossed sullenly over his chest. Yeah, he was pissed at Toki, but dammit if the kid hadn’t hit a nerve about his conflicted feelings over their former manager.   
  


He thought about the long string of texts on his phone — all sent to Charles, with no reply for months. At some point the stupid knock knock jokes and links to cat memes had given way to things like  _Did you get my text_  and  _Just fucking talk to me you dick_. 

He thought about how he really had been in a piss-poor mood ever since being stuck on that sub for three months, and how it no longer felt quite adequate to simply blame his own actions on Charles holding out on him so they could all focus on the new album. After all, it was the album that was somehow supposed to save the fucking world, right? And sure, Charles could’ve explained that at the time, but Nathan had to admit it wouldn’t have had the same convincing affect as a giant flying dude coming out of nowhere and murdering the head of their record label with scary-ass mind powers. 

He thought about fooling around with Charles, getting the guy to loosen up a little for a change, and how afterwards Charles would be all relaxed and pliant and actually laugh at shit like a normal person… 

“Nathans?” 

“ _WHAT_?” 

“Can I haves a cups of ice waters whats got a real cool straw?” Toki asked petulantly. His pout at being snapped at was practically audible. 

When Nathan stomped out of the room to get the requested drink, he stopped a passing doctor by grabbing onto one lab-coated arm and swinging her around. 

“Hey,” he demanded gruffly, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder towards Toki’s room, “is that dildo okay to be moved?” 

The doctor blinked. “Um, yes, Mr. Explosion. He still needs to be on medication, but he’s healing up more quickly than expected.” 

“Good,” Nathan growled, “because were going on a trip. Get him ready to go by… uh, just as soon as possible. Got it?” He’d been about to say tomorrow, but now that he’d decided on his next course of action he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Releasing the bewildered physician, he rounded on the klokateers standing guard outside Toki’s door. “You guys, you call… someone, and make sure the submarine is ready to go. And tell all the guys, too.” 

He straightened up to his full imposing height — not that anyone around him needed to be more intimidated, it just felt cool and important to do every once in a while. Without realizing it, his growl was starting to take on some of the ominous rumble of prophecy. 

“ _We’re going back into the ocean._ ”


	6. A Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was, "I want him to have to take care of a baby. I don't care why, I just want Nathan to have to tend to a baby for awhile." 
> 
> Originally Posted: Jan 24, 2011 on LiveJournal

It was one of those fucked up, unpredictable things. All Nathan knew was that something had come flying at him, he'd caught it one-handed, and it turned out to be a baby. "What kind of sick fuck brings a baby to a metal concert?" he demanded, bellowing to hear himself over the noise of the squalling infant, who did not appreciate being held upside-down.  

For a brief moment, thanks to the microphone still in Nathan's other fist, the combined force of both his and the baby’s voices drowned out even the music. Toki and Murderface trailed off mid-note, followed by Pickles crashing to a startled halt. Skwisgaar's concentration broke only when a drumstick went flying right past his nose, and he looked up first with a puzzled scowl and then a more certain glare. 

"Nathans, why you am lets a baby screams ons to the mic right befores I gets to my solos!"

"Yeah, what the hell, dood!"

"Cans I holds it?"

"NO." Nathan took a step away from Toki, then frowned down at the baby. Instinctively, he pulled it closer to his body and the tiny thing fit neatly on his forearm, held against his chest with his hand under it's butt and it’s head near his elbow. Kind of like tucking a football under his arm, but over instead of under. Baby... baby handling. Something like that.

The baby's face unscrewed a little. It still glared with bright-eyed, infantile fury, but it was no longer actively turning red so it was probably happier being held this way. Although the wailing continued, the baby paused for a second to hiccup and, when it was done with that, carried on with slightly less volume.

"Huh," Nathan grunted. He looked out at the seething mass of audience, which had gone quiet except for the moans of regular jack-offs who hadn't yet been completely trampled to death in the usual concert mayhem. "Who the fuck just threw a baby at me?" When he got no response, he glared harder. “Seriously!"

"Throwing babiesch?" Murderface repeated, puzzled. “What’sh the point? They don’t even exshplode on contact.”

"I thought babies am only what's good for the lawyersuits," Skwisgaar commented with a dark look. 

Nathan looked down at the baby again. "It's not blonde," he announced. "Hey. People out there. If you're missing a… black haired, brown-eyed baby… You know. Get up here and fucking claim it."

This proved to be a mistake. Suddenly it was everyone's baby, and security was only just able to hold off the massive stampede long enough for the band to flee the stage. 

* * *

 

“Is its a girls or a boys baby?” Toki asked eagerly.

Nathan, the only member of the band who hadn’t had a chance to wash of his corpse makeup yet, shoved him away again. “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to make it go to sleep,” he snapped. Then he looked down at the baby and added, for it’s benefit, “Uh, I mean... beddy-bye time.” His shoulders hunched as the words came out of his mouth, as quietly as he could manage. 

The baby, for it’s part, didn’t seem to understand stupid baby talk any more than regular talk, and blew a loud raspberry back at him followed by some baby jibberish and a spit bubble. Then, apparently quite pleased with itself, it looked around with bright, totally awake eyes and clapped enthusiastically.

“Mebbey we should feed it,” Pickles offered. “We still got some pizza left.”

“Ah, babiesch don’t eat pizza, Picklesch... They can’t _chew._ ”

Toki looked utterly mystified, briefly distracted from pestering to see the infant. “Why nots?”

Murderface pointed at the baby’s wide open, grinning mouth. “No teeth," he pointed out authoritatively. "They have to drink everything.”

Further wonder and awe at this new information. “Like throughs a straw?”

“Nipples,” Skwisgaar offered disinterestedly from the other side of the helicopter living room. He didn’t care much about babies, having been exposed to them just often enough to know all he felt he needed to know about them.

A silence fell while all present gave nipples due consideration.

“We could put the pizza in a blender or something,” Pickles suggested. 

“Likes a smoothies!”

“Schmoothies shtill need to have schome schort of liquid. Like... fruit juisch or shomething.”

Pickles looked around doubtfully. “We have some cranberry juice, but it’s gaht vadka in it.”

“Well that’sch okay, I mean it’sch closhe enough and it’sch scho young it’sh probably not gonna notiche...”

Charles cut in firmly. “You are not giving a pizza cranberry vodka smoothie to an infant.” He walked further into the room with his usual quick, businesslike stride, thoroughly ignoring Murderface’s protests that he never let them do anything. “Nathan, are you sure you should be holding that?”

“Uh. You weren’t here when I tried to hand it off.” Absently, Nathan shifted the baby to one knee and bounced it gently. He vaguely remembered that repetitive motions like that had helped him fall asleep when he was little. “Fucking thing can really scream.”

The hint of grudging admiration in this statement did not pass unnoticed by Charles. Before he could remark on it, Toki moved in to try and play with the baby again. Skwisgaar finally looked up from his guitar. “Toki, you stupids dildo, don’t sets it ups agains!” 

Scowling, Nathan leaned over it protectively while giving the rhythm guitarist a shove in the other direction. The baby gurgled and tugged on a handful of his long black hair.

Charles sighed. “Well, Nathan, it seems to like you. It isn’t fussing, anyway. Do you feel up to watching after it until I figure out where it belongs?”

“I guess so,” Nathan replied doubtfully. “Ow. Hey, you little shit, don’t pull that...”

The baby put his hair in its mouth and gummed it noisily. 

“Okay then...” Charles was already making good his escape. “I’ll, ah, have someone bring a bottle of formula for it to drink and be back when I have some news. Good luck.”

* * *

“It’s a boy,” Nathan announced. “Oh crap, that is... that is disgusting. Oh god. I think I’m gonna puke. Ugh.”

“Don’t knock it,” Murderface retorted. “We all schtart out as little puking schit maschinesh.” But even he was standing well back, holding a book about the Civil War over his nose and mouth. Skwisgaar had gotten bored and left, Pickles had taken something and passed out specifically to avoid this sort of thing, and Toki, who had gotten a good, close look at what Nathan was doing, had gone to a far corner of the room to retch quietly.

Nathan threw the dirty diaper out the nearest helicopter window, which at ground level killed one person, injured three more, and fouled a natural water source. “Seriously, why do people make these things,” he grumbled. “Fucking procreation. Eughhh.”

* * *

The baby was asleep.  _Finally_. Nathan looked up slowly as Charles opened the door, by now wary of all sudden movements. His eyes were wide and haunted and, at the sight of his manager, hopeful. 

Charles nodded, and the hope turned to relief. 

* * *

Nathan breathed a huge sigh of relief as the baby was taken away, content in the arms of a court-appointed guardian. 

“I couldn’t actually find the parents,” Charles informed him. “Presumably one or both had, ah, perished at some point during the concert. Witnesses are proving very unreliable about the whole thing. But, regardless, I managed to get something pushed through before everyone went home for the weekend.”

“Hey, I’m just fucking glad it didn’t start screaming again. My ears are killing me.”

“Well. Yes. Glad I could help you out with that.”

“Yeah. Uh... Charles?”

“Yes Nathan?”

The frontman was scowling with an air of decisive finality. “I don’t ever fucking want one of those.”

Charles nodded, suppressing a fervent verbal agreement. The idea of a small wailing thing which had pulled on Nathan’s hair, evidently spit up white on Nathan’s black t-shirt every time it had been fed, and still probably managed to poop out more than its body weight during its stay... Well, Charles had kept his contact with it to a minimum for a reason. A shame that meant he hadn’t been able to lend Nathan much moral support, but it couldn’t be helped. 

“So, uh...” Nathan’s arm insinuated itself around his shoulders with about as much subtlety as a brick through a plate glass window. “Want to go  _not_  make a baby?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Charles replied. Then he added primly, “After you take a shower, please. You smell like a burp rag.”


	7. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Nathan and the requester's choice, which was "gentleness", [from this list](http://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/173966632187/metalocalypse-prompts%22).

The memory takes a long time to come back to him fully, but he remembers it in dreams, in snatches at first. 

 

_“Don’t fuck with my bread and butter.”_

_And then, being cradled so gently, big hands lifting him up. Charles was far gone by then, carried away by the pain that went far deeper than the arrow wound and broken ribs and smashed-in face. But those hands had brought him back._

_He didn’t want to be back. The pain was worse here. But he was resting against a broad warm chest that somehow soothed some of the physical pain, and as long hair brushed his cheek the vaguely familiar scent struck a chord and he reflexively took a deep, torturous breath. That’s when he knew it was Nathan. A whimper rose in his throat and came out as a rasp. He clung as hard as he could, to the man and to life, but knew it was temporary at best._

_Ever since he had met Nathan, he’d wanted this — even though, at first Nathan was still technically underage. Charles had ignored the attraction, but as the years went by and Nathan had grown up, filled out, become famous the world over, those feelings remained unchanged. He’d wanted more than anything, more than he’d ever even admitted to himself, to relax in those strong arms, breeze deep, and feel that Nathan cared — and he’d felt safe in the knowledge that there was never any chance of it happening._

_The tender moment’s sudden, jarring arrival was also marred not only by encroaching death, but by how much of a relief it would be, because oh god, the impossible soul-rending horror of what he had seen…_

_Charles shuddered violently, pulled Nathan close — it felt right that it should be Nathan, fitting — and rasped, “I need you to kill me.”_

 

It’s only in retrospect, when the memory finally comes in full and in waking, that he realizes the surprisingly gentle hands had gone, that he must have lost consciousness for a while and Nathan had handed him off to a medical team. Charles tells himself it’s better this way, better that he hadn’t put Nathan through that. 

... Better. 


	8. May The Gods Watch Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gods of the Klok need to choose a Dead Man — the one to bring them vengeance, that fights for his belief. And Charles just happens to be newly dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I started with "Ghost, Nathan" from [http://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/177459116497/non-human-prompt-meme](this%20non-human%20prompt%20meme), picked up most of Part I of this from a random prompt that passed by on my tumblr dash somewhere to get me started, and drew some ideas for Part III from [https://spys-art-blog.tumblr.com/post/176980517076/hello-absolutely-love-those-dethklok-god-pictures](these%20godklok%20thoughts) by spys-art-blog on tumblr. 
> 
> It DOES include Nathan talking to a ghost.

**I. Because One Day You May Be Called**

It would forever baffle Charles as to how quickly things could go wrong. One minute he was driving along the familiar route between the office and home. The next, he was spinning out of control towards the concrete barrier at the end of the bridge, barely able to glimpse the truck that had decimated the right side of his car. In the short time it took for his hands to let go of the wheel and his car to reach the barrier, he’d managed to bang his head on something and gain a nice little cut along the side of his face.

Then the car hit the barrier. The sudden stop made him imagine the entire world halting on its axis, his stomach lurching and his head spinning even faster now that he was no longer in motion with it. Groaning, he blindly reached out for some kind of surface, only then realizing his glasses had been flung from his face. The blurry interior of the car made him more disoriented, but he managed to locate the window and look up.

A dark shape was rushing towards him, too large to be a person. _The truck_ , his mind supplied simply. The implications of what that rapidly approaching shape meant only clicked when it was a few feet away and he only had enough time to take a sharp breath in understanding.

 

**II. To Meet The Mighty Gods**

At first, it came as a shock when he regained consciousness. _Okay_ , Charles thought, _so I’m not dead_. He felt as though he was floating, which he supposed meant he was safe in a hospital bed, wrapped in a soothing cocoon of pain medication, with medical attention only a call button press away. The second and far more lasting shock came when he opened his eyes. 

He actually was floating, cushioned by thin air about ten feet above the scene of the crash. What little he could see of the passenger car left little hope that the body inside was still intact, and yet, when he touched the numb skin of his cheek, there was red on his apparently solid fingertips. How could he bleed if he was already dead?

Everything was eerily silent. 

And he felt watched. The clusterfuck of snarled traffic rapidly lost his interest as the feeling intensified, as though eyes were boring into him from several different directions at once, pinning him in place. 

Charles whipped his head around, half expecting to see... what? There was nothing. Just a sweeping view of ocean, glittering and blue and deep. The freeway had been built atop steep cliffs, and from where he hovered it seemed that one impatient shrug of the earth was all it would take to tumble the entire ribbon of asphalt and cars into the churning water. Golds, oranges, and reds bled into everything from the setting sun, painting everything but the pale sliver of rising moon with brilliant light. There was no wind, at least where Charles was. 

He’d driven home this way hundreds of times. Thousands. Yet, as he hung in the air above his mortal remains, he couldn’t remember ever taking a single moment to appreciate the view. 

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. 

IT IS. 

He hadn’t realized that he hadn’t been breathing before. Funny what the _lack_  of breath catching in sudden terror could tell you. And had he been straining his eyes looking for whatever was watching him, or did the glints of reddish light catching on the ocean waves form the vague shape of a man?

A man that seemed more real and more imaginary the longer he stared, far away and right there at the same time. Not a man — there was no way, it was too impossible. Whatever it was, it looked down at the wrecked vehicles below with an air of passive satisfaction. 

Then it turned it’s terrible gaze upon Charles with decidedly less passivity. Shadows fell across its face like long dark hair, or long strings of seaweed swaying in the current below the water’s surface, and that, Charles knew, was what had been watching him. 

It bared it’s shark teeth at him and asked, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Charles opened his mouth, closed it, looked down at the rapidly drying blood on his fingers. “I, ah... I used to be someone,” he mumbled. “Now I’m dead."

YOU ARE NOTHING. 

He found himself nodding. No family. No wife or kids, not even a girlfriend. Not even a pet. Riding a desk in a dead-end job that he’d had since graduating college with a degree in law that he’d never bothered to use, and was too apathetic to leave for anything better. There was no one to miss him, no way to claim that he’d made any sort of positive impression on the world before leaving it. Or even a negative one, for that matter.  _Nothing_. 

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. 

WOULD YOU CHOSE TO BE MORE?

Charles felt his heart leap at the suggestion, and that seemed to be answer enough. The apparition narrowed its glowing red eyes. It seemed pleased. 

SO BE IT. 

And suddenly there was wind, twisting and writhing around him like a bed of snakes, as though it had always been there but had been holding still, awaiting orders. The earth flew towards him and the sea rose up, the sun and moon grew huge in the sky, and Charles passed unto utter blackness as reality reknitted itself around him. 

 

**III. Deep Within The Ocean**

The ghost stood in the center of a cavernous office. Somewhere in the gloom above there were elaborate chandeliers, but most of the lightbulbs were broken and the only light of the setting sun came in weak streams between the boards nailed up over broken windows. It was deathly still, and the air tasted of ash and dust. 

He wasn’t sure what he was doing there, or how he knew he was a ghost. The longer he stood there the more he felt as though it was where he belonged. It was a nagging, annoying feeling, as though he had just been about to do something very important but forgotten what it was. Or... hadn’t been told yet?

A sudden crash behind him made him flinch, but just barely. 

“CHARLES,” someone roared. A man, very gravelly-voiced and very, very drunk. The ghost was distantly impressed that amidst all that stumbling he was still managing to keep his feet. “CHARLES, it’s me, NATHAN. Where... where the fuck...!”

His dark green eyes fell on the ghost, who felt the impact as a full body jolt because he hadn’t expected to be seen. Apparently the man, Nathan, hadn’t exactly expected to see him either because he swayed to a stop. With one hand — the other still had a tight grip on a bottle of tequila — Nathan pushed long hair out of his face and squinted uncertainly. 

“Charles. Is that... You’re here?” Nathan looked up at the ceiling as though the broken chandeliers could offer some sort of explanation, then at his feet, then at his bottle, which he took a swig from. That seemed to strengthen his grasp on the situation. “I mean... You. Are here. Good.” He swayed. “I’ve got... There’s... fuckin’ problems.”

“I see,” the ghost replied, and cleared his throat. “Please, have a seat.” The hand gesture toward the big dust felt perfectly natural, though the ghost hadn’t previously paid much mind to the furniture before that moment. So did walking around the dominating piece of furniture and taking a seat, ignoring, for the moment, that there was a dust cover on the large wingback chair and he sank into it slightly without so much as a crinkle or rustle of fabric. 

Nathan trailed after him. Both of the chairs in front of the desks were on their sides, as though the same impact of whatever had blown the now shuttered windows in had knocked them over as well. He gamely put his bottle down and spent a minute clumsily righting one, then dropped into it with a huff and squinted again. 

“What was I talking about?”

The ghost folded his hands before him on the dusty wooden surface. “I believe you mentioned having problems.”

Nathan’s dower expression brightened a fraction as he remembered. “Fuck, yeah...” Then his face fell. “It’s all fucked up. All the... money, and... You... We’re _broke_.” 

He retrieved his bottle and sipped from it, shoulders slumped and looking older than the ghost thought he should — not that the ghost knew what his age actually was. But there was a dawning familiarity building up in the back of his mind, like a favorite, nearly forgotten tune just in the edge of hearing. 

“It’s hard,” Nathan confided, slumping further towards the desk. “It’s really... hard without you. I don’t know how to do this shit. Press releases and financial... fuckin’... bullshit...”

_Yes_ , the ghost thought, _I remember this._ Did he, though? Or had the information just arrived his head? He couldn’t remember. Absently, he adjusted his glasses and rubbed his fingertips against the side of his face, tracing a scar that ran from cheekbone to jaw. 

It didn’t matter. There was a job to do, and he was the best man for it. 

“I’m sure we can sort this out,” Charles said firmly. “Walk me through it.”

 

**IV. And If You’re Not Prepared**

Air slammed into his lungs, accompanied by the sting of pins and needles in... well, everything. 

Charles remembered reading once that many bodily functions — digestion, for example — were quite painful, but the human nervous system was wired to tell the conscious mind to ignore it. For a moment, he felt every cubic inch of his body, and could ignore none of it. 

When the feeling passed and the echoes of his hoarse screams died away, Charles tried to sit up and was gently pushed back down. 

“Be still,” a soothing, age-worn voice told him. “The Gods of the Klok have restored you, but at great cost. It will be some time before you are truly whole again.”

Charles allowed himself to fall back into the soft bed, secretly relieved. “What happened,” he croaked. 

“They have chosen you to be their champion, and made it so that it has always been so,” the old man told him solemnly. 

He remembered the ocean and broken glass. 

“You are the Dead Man.”

He remembered talking to something that looked like Nathan, and then remembering who Nathan was after the fact, because… because...

“In time, you will forget that it was any other way.”

 

**V. Your Soul Will Not Be Spared**

Thousands of leagues away, in a dragon-shaped mansion hovering miles above sea level, Nathan Explosion woke with his cheek resting on a puddle of tequila-drool. He lifted his head and immediately regretted it. 

“Dood, wake up!” Pickles was shaking his shoulder. “Don’t know what you’re doin’ in’ere anyway, it’s still a disaster area in this wing...”

“Wha...?” Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, feeling like they were about two sizes to large for his head, and tried to focus on where ‘in here’ was. 

He had been... What had he been doing? 

There had been drinking, obviously. And then he’d wandered around, pacing down up and down the halls until he’d arrived at their manager’s office. 

“I was. Uh. Talking to Charles about... money?” he guessed. As he said it, the memory solidified somewhat in his head. “Yeah. Money.”

Pickles’ stopped shaking his arm and frowned. “Nat’n, that’s impossible. Ofdensen’s d... He hamburger timed. Remember?”

“But I...” Nathan froze halfway towards wiping the gross spit off his face. He’d just gotten so used to Charles being there all those years that he’d stormed in blind drunk and... passed out and dreamed the whole thing, apparently, because the man was dead. They’d had a funeral pyre and everything; there was no way what he remembered could have actually happened. 

_Unless it was a ghost_ , Nathan thought despondently. But what were the chances of that?

While he was still mulling that over, Pickles sighed and shook his head. “Dood, ya really gotta lay off the tequila. Now c’mon, this place ain’t gonna remodel itself. I think I’ve almost got the hang of that circular saw thing...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s also a little like that thing that happened in fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when suddenly Dawn is there, and always has been, and technically that’s new but she’s been retconned into everyone’s memories so no one questions it.


	9. Give Us This Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Even as a child, Charles Offdensen liked power._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "Charles/Religion," [from this list](http://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/173966632187/metalocalypse-prompts%22). I decided to take it... very literally.
> 
> Please excuse Charles' extremely cynical take on organized religion in this fic, if you mind that sort of thing. I view it as a separate beast from spirituality, though the two are not mutually exclusive.

Even as a child, Charles Offdensen liked power. From preschool through junior high he was a consummate teacher’s pet, but as a freshman he discovered religion and saw it for what it was: a power structure.  

Not that he was that he was completely cynical — not yet. His mothers were very spiritual, just not religious. When Charles attended his first mass he listened to script and scripture and admired the codified formula for success. By the end of that year he had been baptized, first communioned, accepted into service as an altar boy, and confirmed as an adult in the eyes of the church. His true beliefs, he kept to himself. 

His first sexual experience came unexpectedly when he was sixteen, and only by chance. He had arrived early one Sunday to assist the priest with preparing for that week’s services and noticed the man watching him surreptitiously while he changed into his acolyte robes. The attention shocked but didn’t surprise him; Charles followed the news, and was getting a more and more jaded worldview every day. 

As he went through his duties for the rest of the day, that shock turned gradually became a secret thrill. What he had witnessed was the kind of secret that could ruin a man of the cloth, and that gave him power over a prominent figure in the community. He nursed the growing excitement until all the parishioners had finished their Sunday rituals and gone home, then let the air out of his own bike tires and went to the priest’s office to ask for a ride home. That day he willingly had his first taste of how many sins a church robe could hide. He proceeded to blackmail his way into having more, whenever he wanted. 

When Charles left his hometown for college, he left the trappings of religion behind him as well. Mostly. He did find a thrill in having “study dates” in the undergrad campus chapel, with guys and girls alike. It was almost as good as the power trip of being a TA when he graduated to law school. 

Then he was a full-fledged lawyer, and that kept him thoroughly occupied for a while. 

 

* * *

 

It was at the first concert where Dethklok was headlining that Charles knew his spur of the moment decision to take a chance on five scruffy metal musicians several months ago was going to pay off. On paper, the only thing that had changed since then was trading one scruffy guitarist for another, younger one — but it was another thing entirely to hear the group perform. As an opening band the crowd had been mesmerized; as the headliner, the starving faithful rioted impatiently through the openers and went apeshit when Dethklok took the stage.  

It felt almost as though he’d stepped back into Father Ravenwood’s devoted parish, but a darker, louder perversion of that. The heady rush of it made his soul sing and his dick grow hard. Nathan’s commanding growl reverberated through his body and he knew, _knew_ that someday the band would need him to fend off some ridiculous lawsuit about some idiot following some brutal instruction from a song to the letter, resulting in injury or death. That was the thought that pushed him over the edge, pushed his hand to undo the fly of his nice suit in the private box he had reserved out of his own pocket to mark the occasion. And by god, he marked it. He celebrated, he worshiped, at the top of his lungs (because who could possibly overhear), and felt more true to himself than he ever had in his years with the church. 

Most church-goers talked the talk, maybe even walked the walk, but so few of them lived it like truth, like it was the air they breathed. Metal heads, on the other hand, went all fucking in. He could respect that. Respect the hell out of it. Many times in the space of that single concert. 

By the end of the week, Charles had a list of of twenty-seven volunteers and counting who were willing to live and die for Dethklok, and serve in whatever way was asked of them in between. He redesigned the roadie uniform to mark them as different from the guys who were just in it for the pay and backstage access. Suffused with the pleasant tingle of power, he officially dubbed the true believers Klokateers. 

He would have designed the brand himself, but Nathan beat him to it. Ten minutes after mentioning the idea in passing during a band meeting, the frontman interrupted Charles in mid stride of the next topic he’d moved on to with a gruff “Hey,” and slid a scrap of paper with the painstakingly drawn sketch across the table. As Charles reached to take it their eyes met, and that hard, commanding green gaze struck straight to his core. 

Charles knew that, once again, he had become an acolyte. He had the brand made, and made sure he was the first to receive it — though not at the base of his skull like the others. 

Construction of a castle styled to resemble a Viking ship began a month later. 

 

* * *

 

After the attach on the band in the Gulf of Danzig, after “That’s my bread and butter your fucking with” when what he really meant was something closer to holy sacrament, Charles was shocked to see a familiar face amidst the bodies littering the bloodied snow. Neither time nor the manner of his passing had been kind to Father Ravenwood, a Cardinal now by the look of his robes. As Charles looked over the corpse, a new dusting of snow began to fall.  

_You chose the wrong god,_ he thought coldly. 

_Mine are stronger._


	10. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan’s trying to pay attention, trying to stay tuned in to what’s happening, but it’s hard after all the weed and booze and weed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by [this fanart](https://gangnome.tumblr.com/post/181937900802) by gangnome on tumblr.

Nathan’s trying to pay attention, trying to stay tuned in to what’s happening, but it’s hard after all the weed and booze and weed again. He keeps drifting off on pleasantly unimportant stray thoughts and drifting back in on the smoke eddying around the room. But apparently, _apparently_ , he’s watching cartoons on tv and the rest of the guys have fucked off somewhere else. Skwisgaar probably literally, which is a mental image that makes him chuckle out loud. 

The low rumble dislodges something from his chest, and Charles sits up out of nowhere. Nathan blinks slowly at him. Everything looks wavery and soft, like everything is actually just shapes of smoke, like pencil lines sketched on the barely-solid air. He reaches towards Charles’ face to test this theory but before he can get there the apparition plucks the smoldering joint from his outstretched fingers. The manager’s eyes are red behind his spectral glasses but he looks very serious and calm, and he holds th joint like a cigarette. 

Nathan watches him take a hit (woah, déjà vu) and there's this funny head tilt that he does. Like that librarian thing where they try to look at you over the tops of their glasses. Not that Nathan knows from experience really but that doesn’t mean it’s not a thing, right? Charles’ hair is almost perfect, unruffled, just a few strands falling away from the rest to form a comma on his forehead. He’s still in the suit and tie, so incongruous as smoke trails lazily from between his lips, hypnotic. 

“Huh?” Nathan says stupidly, because he has a feeling he’s missed something somewhere. The single syllable seems to take forever rolling around in his mouth before falling out. He’s trying to pay attention, he really is. 

Smoke drifts up lazily from the cherry end of the joint, and Charles is giving him that look again. “I said,” he begins again, and there’s an odd quality to his words that Nathan can’t place. “Ah, I said that you smell nice.”

Nathan realizes that Charles enunciating in an attempt to sound more sober than he actually is. That must mean he’s _wasted_ , which happens so rarely that it should probably be a national fucking holiday. He thinks about that for a moment, trying to decide what the accompanying parade should look like, before tuning back in as the joint is pressed gently back into his hand. 

“Oh, uhhhhh... Thanks?” 

The paper feels lightly damp against his lips. Nathan inhales, looks down at it in a cross-eyed glance, and thinks about the difference between sharing spit via a joint versus kissing. He lets his head drop back against the couch. 

“Isn’t that... kinda gay?” It’s a toss-up as to whether he’s responding or Charles’ observation or just talking to himself. 

Charles takes the joint back, not to smoke but to ash it into the beer can on the table. “Nathan,” he sighs, and there’s that look again. “ _I’m_ gay.”

The smoke forms a sudden knot in Nathan’s lungs and he coughs. He coughs longer than he actually needs to, half in hopes that it will make him feel a lot higher a lot quicker because the thing is, _the thing is_ , he’s pretty sure Charles isn’t bullshitting him. He’s also not quite checked out enough to not have noticed the man is fucked up right now. Whether Charles himself knows that is a mystery, which makes the burden of responsibility pretty damn heavy. What if, Nathan wonders, he wakes up tomorrow and _still knows_? What’s a guy supposed to _do_  with that information? And Charles is just sitting there staring, all serious and waiting for a reply as though he’d done some everyday thing like asking about the progress on the next album, but all Nathan can think to do is stare back. 

Since he’s not doing anything in particular at the moment and his eyes are already there, Nathan takes a moment to study Charles’ face. The features are familiar, comfortable — the face of their financial success for over a decade. No... over two decades. 

Shit. 

He’s known Charles for more than half his life. Maybe the man’s a little thinner, more haggard, hairline starts a little further back, but hell, if there’s an award for aging gracefully he has everyone else Nathan can think of beat, himself definitely included. 

Slowly Nathan begins catching up to reality again and realizes his mouth his hanging open. “Uhhhhhhhhhow come you’re telling me?” he blurts out for lack of anything better. And he may feel as heavy as a sack of potatoes right now, but he’s also kind of curious about the answer. “Now, I mean. How come you’re telling me now, now? Pretty big thing not to mention for, uh. As long as I’ve known you. I thought we were friends, man.”

“Friends,” Charles repeats slowly, then reaches out with his free hand and taps his index finger on Nathan’s chest. Or jabs, really. Is it accusatory? Nathan isn’t sure. “And what would you have done with that information?” he asks. 

No, accusatory isn’t right. Nathan recognizes the inflection, though he’s never heard it on Charles before and, frankly, never imagined he would. Usually he hears it from ladies when they want to fool aroun— oh. 

_Oh._

All he can think of, as Charles shifts even closer to him on the couch, is that this must be why the guy hardly ever gets sloppy with the band. And why, that one other time he did, he’d spent most of the night sending Nathan joke texts and being absently batted away from playing with Nathan’s hair. It was a mild annoyance at the time, but Nathan also remembers being generally pleased with the attention from someone usually so comprehensively busy. 

The finger on his chest flattens to Charles’ entire hand, not holding him down (which he probably could, right now) but for balance. Nathan is disproportionately aware of how warm that hand feels through his t-shirt, and the way his heart booms slow and steady and ridiculously loud beneath it. He stares at Charles’ face as the man leans closer, and it’s kind of goddamn hilarious how _serious_  he still looks, like he’s about to tell him something real important about spreadsheets or some shit. The thought is enough to make Nathan feel giddy with contained laughter. Way too relaxed to put a stop to anything, that’s for sure. 

It’s not his first kiss while faded, not by a long shot. Charles feels sharp and angular but, uh, kinda nice, the way his weight fits against Nathan’s body. There are these tremors that keep running through them, Nathan isn’t sure if it’s him or the hot mess slowly collapsing into his lap. And the kiss itself is a little clumsy but, fuck, it’s just the right sluggish tempo that he can really get into right now. Not asking for anything, not a kiss that’s just a formality, a mere precursor to having sex — it’s kissing for kissing’s sake, and that’s kind of nice for a change. 

And anyway, it’s not _really_ gay until the penises touch, right? Right. 

Charles’ hands are in his hair, which Nathan quietly finds kinda amusing, maybe even endearing. Also, it’s just the right amount of tugging that sends a pleasant tingle through his scalp and flushing down his face. He’s holding Charles by the hips now, because that’s just where his hands landed, thumbs rubbing languid circles on the expensive fabric of the suit trousers, and _damn_ that’s a firm ass. Really... muscular, in a subtle way. Way to go Charlie. 

It’s an eternity before they break apart for air. Charles gasps like he’s running a marathon and Nathan even feels a little winded too. Maybe it’s the whiplash of hardly finding this weird after all. It just seems like, uh, the thing to do. 

He feels the thump of Charles’ forehead coming to rest on his shoulder, then turning into his neck, lips resting against his pulse. Nathan looks around with hooded eyes and manages to spot and retrieve the almost forgotten joint without jostling him, something that feels unexpectedly important in this moment. Like he wants to take care of Charles, to let him rest and enjoy being buoyed by the high of the weed and the chill of the booze. Luckily the joint is still smoldering merrily away, and he savors the taste of it as Charles slouches down further to rest against his chest. 

Nathan exhales smoke into the already hazy air. They sit like that for a while, in comfortable silence. He keeps drifting off on pleasantly unimportant stray thoughts and drifting back in on the smoke eddying around the room...

He’s trying to pay attention, he really is. 


	11. The Click

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That moment when things really fall into place, but you don't feel pressured to do anything about it just yet, but you _know_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this](http://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/183008433547/no-offense-but-two-characters-running-from-the).

There was a stitch in Nathan's side. His lungs were burning. He was trying to keep up, but Charles kept running like the fucking Energizer Bunny — which was a really weird mental image, actually, and he was already trying to forget it. One moment of distraction in which he didn't see the flooded pothole in time, flailing in sudden panic when his foot didn't meet asphalt when expected. A second later there was water in his boot, and an uneven landing, and his ankle was doing something that it definitely wasn't meant to because fucking ow, and Charles had doubled back to grab his arm and haul him into the nearest alley for cover. With one arm across the smaller man's shoulders and their torsos practically touching, Nathan noted with dumb surprise that appearances were deceiving and Charles was, in fact, breathing just as hard as he was.

Together, they limped around a dumpster and hid behind it, waiting for the thunderous footfalls of hundreds of excited fans to pass. There wasn't much space between the dumpster and back of the alley; Nathan wedged in with his back to the bricks, as far away from the smell as possible, and Charles practically leaning against his chest to avoid touching his suit to the dirty metal. And now that they weren't in danger of being caught, trampled, or... fawned over to death or whatever... the whole situation was kind of funny. The rest of the band was fine, they'd made it into the dethcopter okay, but Nathan hadn't been able to reach the rope ladder in time. He hadn't even been surprised when Charles parachuted back down to the ground like a total badass to help him get to safety.

He felt a chuckle bubbling up, not because it was funny haha really but just from relief and excess adrenaline. Charles must have felt it too because he pressed a finger to Nathan's mouth in a shush gesture. There was a telltale quirk of his own lips, though, that betrayed the same kind of untimely giddiness. After all, the horde of fans was still out there, and while stampede mentality wasn't exactly conducive to finding their hiding place it would still be best not to make any noise that might attract attention.

It was kind of hard to concentrate with Charles crowded against him like that, touching his lips. Normally Nathan didn't devote so much attention to dudes, but every nerve was still on alert and he was hyper aware of every breath, every point of contact. He could've sworn he felt Charles' pulse through his finger, which was lingering longer than seemed strictly necessary. Then he caught himself staring at Charles' mouth and thinking about lips and things pressed against lips and lips pressing against lips and...

"I think the coast is clear," Charles murmured, removing the finger. His glasses were slightly askew, but he made no move to readjust them. Instead, his hand drifted down to rest lightly on Nathan's chest, feeling incredibly warm through the sweat-damp black t-shirt. "We could probably double back now."

Nathan licked his lips self-consciously. "Uh, yeah," he mumbled, aware that he was staring but lacking the willpower to stop. "We probably could."

Neither of them made a move to leave, and it occurred to Nathan that Charles was staring too. In the cramped space he could feel the other man's breath against his skin. Everything seemed to slow down, and in the eternal space between heartbeats Nathan knew that something had irrevocably shifted between them. It was okay that the moment would end soon. They both instinctively knew that, someday, it would come again.


End file.
